


(take my whole life too)

by unhookingstarswithoutpermission



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Falling In Love, Fluff, Holding Hands, Idiots in Love, M/M, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn, Tooth-Rotting Fluff, and each other, really just two dorks who love to hold hands
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-07
Updated: 2016-02-07
Packaged: 2018-05-18 20:02:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5941300
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/unhookingstarswithoutpermission/pseuds/unhookingstarswithoutpermission
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Enjolras and Grantaire love holding each other hands, period. But who knew they could make even such a simple thing so damn difficult. </p><p> </p><p>  <i>Grantaire has objectively good looking hands, Enjolras could write poetry about them. And that's a lot to say, since Enjolras is not exactly the most creative person – but this is not the point. The point is, or even better, are, Grantaire's hands. He's transfixed by them.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	(take my whole life too)

**Author's Note:**

> I don't even know when or why this story became this long and this fluffy.  
> Just, enjoy.

The first time Enjolras asks Grantaire to hold his hand, he doesn't, well, really _ask_.

They are at the Musain, just after one of their weekly meetings, and maybe Grantaire has had too much to drink even though he is trying to stop. Bossuet has _somehow_ managed to drop both his phone and his drink, and while the latter is impossible to get back, Grantaire quickly tries to catch the former before it hits the ground. Unluckily for him, moving too fast is quite difficult to bear for his dazed mind, and if he trips over his own feet, only alcohol is to blame for that.

Except he doesn't fall face first onto the floor, because a strong set of hands catch him before it is too late. Grantaire doesn't recognise whom those hands belongs to at first, so he doesn't hesitate a second before grabbing one of them.

His heart doesn't stop the moment he raises his eyes for a fortunate coincidence. He surely hasn't expected to find himself centimetres away from the _very_ beautiful face of Enjolras, and trying to play it cool is quite distressing. Enjolras was sitting just behind him, that much he knows, but the reason he had tried and caught him remained a mystery. In a moment, the grip on his hand turns into fire.

“Are you okay?” asks Enjolras, voice soft and calm, unlike the mess in Grantaire's head.

“Yeah, I think so”, mumbles back Grantaire. He is well aware that Joly and Bossuet – whose phone has hit the ground, by the way – are observing the scene with twin smirks, he can see it from the corner of his eyes. “Thank you.”

He lets go of his hand, maybe too forcefully, and if Enjolras' cheeks become darker, he surely has imagined it.

  


There is a feeling of _warmth_ that comes along holding Grantaire's hand, and Enjolras finds himself longing for it. He doesn't know neither why nor how to get rid of it, what he knows is that yielding to it is easier said that done.

There are brushes of hands, of course, every now and then: sometimes Enjolras asks Grantaire to pass him a pen, sometimes they walk so near each other that they touch. It's never enough, though. It's becoming a problem: Enjolras finds himself following Grantaire's swift movements over whatever he is drawing in the middle of a meeting. It's distracting.

He has, of course, tried searching for a remedy: he has questioned Combeferre to know what to do, but all he has got back were a smirk and a witty response, “Just hold his hand then, what's the matter with that?” He hasn't even bothered talking to Courfeyrac, who has caught his longing stares anyway, more than once, but Enjolras knows well enough that if he admits it he would never let him hear the end of it.

When they get to hold hands again, it's not exactly how Enjolras hoped it to be.

In fact, Enjolras doesn't remember much of it – he's drunk, and he's never drunk, he can't _do_ drunk. Combeferre surely knows that, but the last time Enjolras saw him he was on the dance floor, grinding against Courf- okay, he's happy for them finally resolving their sexual tension but he can't watch a minute more of _that_. 

All it takes is Marius talking again and again and again about the girl he thinks he's falling in love with, Jehan starting to composing a poem about Marius' lover and Eponine with watery eyes who dares him to a competition of how many shots they can take, and well, he's never turned off a competition. And Combeferre is half of his self control anyway.

When he reaches Grantaire, he's completely drunk, but not sorry about it yet. “R!” he cheers him, maybe too squeakily. Grantaire's surprised expression makes him giggle to no end. “Buy me a drink?”, he asks, falling in a seat near his.

“I haven't ever thought I would have to say no to this, but I do.” He must see the confusion in his eyes as he grins. “Enjolras, you're _drunk_.”

“I'm not!”, screams Enjolras loudly, and tries to grab his half-finished beer. Grantaire is quick to remove the bottle, and if he ends with his hand clasped into Enjolras', he hasn't surely done it on purpose.

“C'mon, I'm taking you home”, Grantaire states. When he tries to let go of his hand, Enjolras' grasp becomes a little bit tighter, and in the same instant something tightens in Grantaire's chest as well.

  


The third time it happens, no one asks for it yet again. (It's a massive problem.)

It's just a coincidence. They're at Joly, Bossuet and Musichetta's flat, which is the biggest of Les Amis', honouring the tradition of Wednesday films that has been going on for years.

It's Jehan's time to choose the film, and the little shit's decision falls upon a horror film, much to the despair of half of their friends. Marius has been bargaining with Cosette for almost an hour, trying to persuade her to go home, but she is stubbornly refusing, helped by an over excited Courfeyrac.

Enjolras hates horror films, everyone knows that, but he can't neither leave – he has already tried, Feully has caught him, though – nor hide in the kitchen, because he's not that much of a coward. And the others would probably tease him to no end.

He tries, at least, to sit next Combeferre – but he has already taken place between Courfeyrac and Eponine, and Enjolras knows that Ferre has done so to have an excuse to hide in between Courf's arms, so he replies to Combeferre's apologetic look with a smile.

He turns around and scans the room in seconds, trying to find a private spot where he can be as frightened as he wants. Unfortunately, the only free place he can spot is next to the sofa where the flat's owners are thrown on, right to Grantaire's side. He quickly sits down.

Grantaire is weirdly quiet throughout the whole film – not that Enjolras is observing him, _of course_. He hears him chuckle briefly whenever he closes his eyes or jumps in fear thanks to the damn film. He almost wants to turn around and yell at him, but a corpse suddenly appears on the screen and even if he doesn't scream like Marius does, he closes his eyes as tight as he can and searches for something to hold on.

He realises he's holding Grantaire's hand a moment later, and he almost wants to apologise – but he doesn't, because Grantaire hasn't said anything, has he? So maybe he doesn't care whether he holds his hand or not...

Suddenly Enjolras loses all interest about the film, trying to memorise how warm and soft Grantaire's hand is. He shoots worried looks to the clock, and he's disappointed to find out that only eight minutes have passed when Grantaire clears his throat and lets go of his hand, not quickly, and disappears in the kitchen.

He knows he should go and talk to him, but he doesn't want to. So he tries not to smile like an idiot and he laughs with his other friends when Combeferre, frightened by another scene, literally jumps on Courfeyrac's lap and they both end up lying on the floor.

  


Once again, they are in a pub, but this time Enjolras isn't the one getting drunk.

He used to get angry at Grantaire whenever he saw him chug bottles of only god knew what one after the other, but now he knows better – partly thanks to Eponine, who had one day showed up at his door and explained him why he was only making Grantaire feel worse. He doesn't get upset anymore, he just gets _sad_ , but he knows he has no right whatsoever to tell Grantaire what he should do and that he can do no more but be supportive.

Since when he has learned to see Grantaire this way, not as someone who was to be saved by him, but simply as a person – a very stubborn, sassy and _annoying_ person – that had no need to hear him point out all his flaws, he has started appreciating him more. He hadn't seen it at first, but Grantaire wasn't only a cynic and a drunkard – he was also a caring, sweet person, who put up walls around himself that made him seem rough, and one of the few artists whose art he could understand, along Jehan's.

So he doesn't scowl him when he reaches the table where him, Courfeyrac and Combeferre are sitting, he just looks up at him and mirrors the same words he had spoken when Enjolras was the one who could barely stand on his own feet: “I'm taking you home”.

If Grantaire is surprised by his mannerism, he doesn't show it. He's silent during the five minutes walk that separates the Musain to his flat, just as he's silent when Enjolras starts to mutter about how “You guys need to keep the door locked, for God's sake, I thought _at least_ 'Chetta would be responsible”. Then they are at his door, and he hasn't still said a word, and Enjolras notices. He asks: “Are you o-” but he's cut off by a very tight and very warm hug _neither_ of them was expecting.

“I, ehrm, thanks-” whispers Grantaire when he lets go, after a few awkward seconds. “God, I'm so sleepy”. He tries to change the subject, even though they weren't talking at all, but Enjolras enters in his _caring mode_ and says, “Go to sleep, then.” Grantaire watches him with wide eyes, searching for an excuse, “Well, I- um, I'll wait the others-” Enjolras' brow furrows. “Nap on the couch. I'm going back to the Musain, I'll tell Joly that you're here.”

Grantaire hopes Enjolras will leave, but he doesn't, at least not until he doesn't see him starting to doze off – and when has he caught his hand? _This whole holding-hands-while-drunk story has to end_ , Grantaire thinks. But he doesn't get the chance to say so, since the alcohol induced sleep kicks in once again, and maybe he's dreaming, but he feels the ghost of a pair of lips kissing his knuckles.

  


Then finals arrive, and everything becomes a _mess_. The Musain, the meetings themselves, become a place filled with anguish and pain and people who cry _constantly_. Few Amis are not involved in the mess that university is, and they all decide to support the others in the best way they can – Feuilly bakes and bakes and bakes for the whole week, Eponine is the shoulder everyone cries onto (especially Cosette, and that is a surprise for them all), Bahorel gives amazing prep speeches.

One day, Jehan and Grantaire rush in the Musain screaming like crazy. “We're done! We're done!” shouts over and over Jehan, and he seems on the verge of tears when he goes around the whole room hugging everyone who doesn't seem about to cry themselves, even Luison. Grantaire screams that just once, gets a bear hug from Bahorel, and Eponine offers him a beer, who cares if the sun is still up.

The others get out of their studying haze for ten minutes, they congratulate to both of them, then Combeferre announces that they all need to get back to studying and no one can say no when there's a book about _corpses_ in his hands. So Jehan offers his help to the _cause_ , while Grantaire wanders about for a bit. He then establishes himself near Joly and Bossuet, who are lying side to side on the floor, the former hearing Combeferre talk about some medical things that Grantaire will never understand, the latter occasionally chiming in on Enjolras and Courfeyrac, trying to sound interested – he absolutely doesn't want to hear Enjolras' speech about how he needs to take uni seriously again.

In the meanwhile Grantaire has taken his notebook and he's doodling something on it, not listening at all until Courfeyrac stops abruptly in the middle of a phrase and says, both worried and amused – Grantaire doesn't understand how such a tone of voice can even be possible, “Marius is crying _again_ , I'm going to see if he's okay, Enj, we're almost finished anyway – but please do not try to revise the rest of it with Bossuet, I think he's almost asleep.” He is. “Grantaire, why don't you help him?”

“Sure”, the word leaves his mouth before he can even think about it, because you don't just _not help_ a friend during finals week. “So”, he mocks light-heartedly when Courfeyrac is up and gone, “should I get comfortable? This looks pretty boring”.

Enjolras gazes at Bossuet's sleeping silhouette, then he looks at him with half-lidded eyes and replies, “Don't worry, you won't have to suffer me for long”. Grantaire pursues his lips in a thin line, but before he can think of an acceptable reply Enjolras is reciting concepts at the top of his mind.

It's not torture, but it's not enjoyable either – the only thing that makes it worth it is how _soft_ Enjolras' voice gets when he's so tired. It's over pretty quickly, though, and Grantaire smiles, “I'm getting you a coffee, wait a moment”.

Enjolras is scrolling through his phone when he returns, and he lets Grantaire settle down once again near him before taking the hot coffee from his hands. He can't help but notice how warm they are as well, and he doesn't want to let go, so he simply decides he won't. He hopes, prays almost, that Grantaire won't loosen the grip, but if he does he can blame it on the fatigue, _can't he_?

Grantaire stays right there and there are mere moments of bliss, before Combeferre calls his name across the room – he hopes it's not for drawing some kind of limb again, but he knows he has to get up. So Grantaire squeezes lightly Enjolras' hand, looking on the wall in front him because he's sure he can't face Enjolras without blushing, and murmurs, “You know, the next time you want to hold my hand, you can just _ask_.”.

  


They dance around it – but what really is _it_ , Grantaire doesn't know; they dance around themselves sounds more right – for so long it almost becomes ridiculous. Even Marius was less blunt when it came to Cosette – yes, they ended up together only thanks to Courfeyrac's wits and Cosette's immense crush, but this is not the point yet again – and when Eponine had mumbled so to Grantaire he had become a _lovely_ shade of plum. They haven't said anything, they don't need to; their friends know both of them well enough to catch what's going on. The Amis _try_ to help, but they realise soon enough they are doing more damages than good, when Grantaire and Enjolras have a particularly nasty fight which ends up in two broken glasses, Grantaire getting more drunk than they have seen him in a lot of time and Enjolras barricading himself into his room and working himself to the breaking point for almost three days. When they get through that, Combeferre and Joly – who, since they are in pre-med, feel the need to care for their friends more than everyone else, setting up turns and having to listen to shouted and sobbed insults – ban the rest of the Amis to ever try again to put the two of them together.

Enjolras and Grantaire come to a _truce_ somehow. It gets them several weeks, plus various impromptu sleepovers during which they are forced to stay, to become civilized around one another again. And when they do, it all returns exactly to the first situation – the one where they smile at each other while they say goodbye, where Grantaire holds up his head from his sketchbook and _knows_ he will find Enjolras' burning gaze turning quickly to a point near where he's sitting, where Enjolras gets to discuss peacefully with Grantaire and compliment him on the way he has with words, even though _your idea is completely wrong_. It's not much, but it's _something_.

It happens again a month after the truce thing has begun. As each and every one of the Amis knows, if there's something Enjolras can't avoid is picking up fights: it doesn't matter how stupid a dare is, he will fulfil it or die trying. He has said those words once, when he was half drunk, just before being dared to make a love confession to Courfeyrac.

Combeferre still has the video, safe and sound in a locked file on his laptop.

They are playing again, this time fully sober and out of pure boredom, waiting for Marius and Eponine to come back from where they disappeared, claiming there was something incredible they wanted to show them. So Jehan has dared Enjolras to draw a resemblant portrait of them, remarking _it can't be a stick man_. And Enjolras is trying really hard, he is, sitting at the furthest table from the one where the others are, concentrated in all earnest on the piece of paper facing him. He is so absorbed in trying to understand why Jehan's portrait resembles one of a duck that he doesn't hear Grantaire getting closer until he starts giggling uncontrollably. Enjolras glares at him, saying: “Oh, shut up, we can't all be artists like you!”, trying to force back a smile.

“Do you want help?”, asks Grantaire, and the other thinks about it for a moment. It is a dare, and he has to win it by himself, but – for God's sake, the whole situation was getting _ridiculous_. “Yes, _please_.”

So Grantaire places his hand upon Enjolras', swiftly, like nothing comes more natural to him. He smirks down and says, a playful smile on his lips, “You see, this way you're not actually cheating!” but all his cheerfulness is gone when he realises what he's doing. “Oh, shit, I'm sorr-”

“No!” the force in Enjolras' voice surprises both of them. “I- I mean, I don't- mind, you know-”

“Oh.” Grantaire smiles again, almost sheepishly. Then he grins, replying, “Enjolras, the offer is still on, just so you know.” He sees the confusion on Enjolras' face, but he doesn't say anything else, afraid he might push him too far and start a fight. “Anyway, I think you should drop the challenge!”, he says, turning back.

“Shut _up_!”, cries Enjolras.

  


Enjolras is not nervous, okay? He's _never_ nervous. He can talk in front of thousands of people, in the most crowded square of Paris, without getting uncomfortable.

So he doesn't understand why his brain suddenly shuts down everytime he _thinks_ about talking to Grantaire. It shouldn't be _this_ difficult – but as it turns out, Enjolras is just as capable of crying out about revolution while facing a crowd as he's absolutely oblivious about how to accept his feelings towards a single person. He thought he was able to face anything with words, but _this-_ this involves softer and quieter words than the ones he's used to.

He had thought about asking help, but the only ones of his friends that have a way with words in _these_ kind of matters are Jehan and Courfeyrac. The problem is that Courfeyrac's way is too loud for his liking, and that Jehan is often teeth-roothing sweet and he's one of Grantaire's best friends, and he doesn't want to risk. So he _plans_.

When Combeferre wakes up, one day, to a furiously tipying Enjolras curled up on the couch at barely seven in the morning, he doesn't question it. It's happened before, and he knows _better_ than disturbing him. When he comes home from Courfeyrac's, though, at seven in the evening, and Enjolras is still crouched there – Combeferre hopes that he has moved, but it's _unlikely_ – he decides to put a halt to whatever that is.

He says, voice cold and inflexible, “Save whatever that is in _five_ ”. He does not specify whether it is five minutes, or five seconds, and Enjolras doesn't even manage to glance up before his computer is slammed shut by his friend's hands. “So”, Combeferre says, a little warmer now that he's facing Enjolras' very red eyes, “what was that?”

Enjolras ponders for a second: he could lie, except he couldn't, Ferre is _way_ too capable of seeing right through him. He could make up excuses, or turn the whole answer into a very paraphrases kind of thing, but- but there's no reason to keep it hidden from Ferre. “I am trying to figure out how to ask Grantaire if he would like to hold my hand.”

He expects Combeferre asking him to repeat himself, but he doesn't. He just blinks, once, then he sits down right next Enjolras. “Just ask him. A yes or no kind of question – quick and painless. What could go wrong?”

 _Everything,_ Enjolras thinks, but he hasn't got better options.

It happens on a sunny day, and Combeferre knows when he hears Grantaire shouting, in sheer disbelief, “I said _ask_ , not make a whole speech about why and how and when, _you idiot_!”

They approach the table where he and the others are sitting holding hands sheepishly, and Enjolras has very red ears, and they quickly take a sit with them. Their hands come to rest under the table, on Enjolras' leg, and Grantaire – whose right hand is free – quickly grabs for a napkin and a pencil,  _grinning_ like an idiot. While he's doodling, Enjolras watches him fondly, then turns to their amazed friends and mouths a silent “Thank you” to Combeferre,who replies with a silent nod. Their exchange doesn't go unnoticed, though, and while Èponine and Musichetta quickly begin texting everyone they know, Courfeyrac practically shouts “I could  _kiss_ you right now!” to Combeferre. And while they both blush deeply Ferre thanks his dark skin because he feels his cheeks boiling, the others are watching them with concerned expressions and Enjolras is smirking. 

  


Grantaire has _objectively_ good looking hands, Enjolras could write poetry about them. And that's a lot to say, since Enjolras is not exactly the most creative person – but this is not the point. The point is, or even better, are, Grantaire's _hands_. He's _transfixed_ by them. They have the power to distract him during a speech, and to stay in the back of his mind and pop up at the _worst_ times – for example, while he's trying to show Grantaire what's wrong in his idea, and Grantaire's gesturing far too much than what's necessary. Even in his dreams, his hands are _merciless_ , lacking the pressure and warmth he's never gotten to feel ( _yet_ , he dares to add sometimes). They are big, and strong, and probably shaped by a Greek sculptor : the hands of an _artist_ , precise and determined and always occupied, much to Enjolras' _despair_.

The discomfort they make him feel mutes into plain, unbearable _pain_ when he sees them coloured by red paint, their owner lingering dangerously above him before touching him, _gently_ , and smearing paint all over his hair and right cheek. Enjolras himself becomes a shadow very similar to the paint's one, both for embarrassment and what he thinks is anger, and he gets up very silently from his seat. “R, I need to talk to you”, he says, and Grantaire is surprised by the stillness in his voice, the way he stressed the word “need”, and the serious – determined, almost – look on his face.

“What?”, Grantaire asks, jokingly, once they are alone in the Musain's backroom.

“I-”and he should have known, he loses all of his words when he's facing R, who's smirking. “What, has the cat go-”

“Your _hands_ ” spits out Enjolras, abruptly interrupting Grantaire's terrible punchline. “What about my hands?”, cues Grantaire.

“They are”, and for a moment Enjolras has to remind himself to breathe and think of something, quickly, “ _distracting_.”

“Distracting”, repeats Grantaire slowly, in sheer disbelief. He notices that Enjolras is blushing all the way up to the tips of his ears and avoiding his eyes, and he nearly _prays_ that he has understood what has been going on when he inhales and says, “Well, would you like taking my hands and their owner on a date?”

Enjolras thinks he's dreaming. Or he's dead, and that's a very _unfair_ vision he's having. “Yes, I would”, he manages to say before his mind fills with white noise.

Grantaire grins and pecks him on the cheek that's not stained with paint.

  


Things go uphill from there.

It's easy, unlike they expected it to be. It almost seems they have _done_ that before, all of it, the teasing and the kissing and the getting together and most of all, the _holding hands_ part.

It seems as natural as breathing, the way they hold hands while kissing, while walking, while having sex, while _fighting_ , even. If Grantaire hadn't gotten out of his emo Tumblr phase centuries before he would define Enjolras holding out his hand for him to reach it as an anchor, as a still point in the mess their lives are. He doesn't describe it this way but once, on a night when he's very drunk and very missing Enjolras – off to a work trip in some little unknown town. Jehan has it recorded.

Their hands fit together in _perfection_ , and it quickly becomes routine, the way Grantaire's searches for Enjolras' hand first thing in the morning and Enjolras for Grantaire's last thing in the night. It's a strange, fuzzy feeling that swells up Grantaire's heart, but Enjolras has taken the habit of randomly kissing the back of his hands and every time he does that Grantaire feels warm and a little happier and _safer_ than before.

**Author's Note:**

> please, give me all the feedback  
> come say hi on [tumblr](http://unhookingstarswithoutpermission.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/imonthetardis)!


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